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Never good enough.
Never strong enough.
After enough time, the criticisms eroded the flesh away, leaving wounds exposed to the salt rubbed into them by his tears (and by those around him).
He’d never had a fighting chance.
He would never be loved.
Because he was not Steve Rogers, and that was enough to earn the enmity of the entire country (plus Barnes, Wilson, and the non-deceased Avengers).
He had given blood, sweat, and tears, but it was never enough.
He lost his best friend, and it wasn’t enough.
He brought a terrorist to justice, albeit in a terrible way, and it wasn’t enough.
He had shattered to pieces, like broken glass, and it still wasn’t enough
Suffice to say, John Walker’s feelings about Steve Rogers were complicated.
He both admired and detested the man.
How could he not?
He had stepped into the man’s role and it had ruined his life.
It had ruined his marriage and killed Lemar.
It had destroyed his career.
Sure, it had led him here, to the Thunderbolts- because no way in hell was John calling them the New Avengers- but it had destroyed him.
He had tried to consecrate the grave of a god, but he was the moon and not the sun.
He had not brought light and life and smiles.
He had only brought shadows and death and blood.
John had onced admired Rogers so deeply it came something close to hero worship.
But now something close to hatred- a blistering, burning, boiling feeling in his blood was all he felt for the man.
If it weren’t for Steve Rogers, Lemar would still be alive.
If it weren’t for Steve Rogers, the Avengers would still be around, and the Thunderbolts wouldn’t have had to step up.
If it weren’t for Steve Rogers, for Captain America, John would still be married and involved in the life of his child and not dishonorably discharged.
And maybe this aching void wouldn’t gnaw at him like a parasitoid wasp gnawing a caterpillar from the inside out.
Maybe John’s sins and blasphemes wouldn’t stain his hands, announce him a sinner, and damn him to hell both on earth and after death.
If Rogers were alive, John wouldn’t be sent death threats almost every day that somehow bypassed the Watchtower’s security.
He wouldn’t hate himself so much, because he wouldn’t be the massive failure he is now (the one that is only spare parts, the one that failed everyone who had ever cared for him).
John stared up to the ceiling, Taylor Swift’s Look What You Made Me Do blaring in his headphones, and wondered if Rogers’ ghost was sated.
Was Rogers content from here on out to solely haunt the narrative?
Had he finished playing the roles of the Furies, the Erinyes, chasing John around and making him bleed?
Was he happy with what he had done?
Or was there more to come?
John didn’t know why or how he’d earned the ire of Captain America, but it sure fucking felt like it, even three years after stepping into (and out of) his role.
The last few years had been hell- Olivia’s pregnancy complications, John falling deeper and deeper into depression, trying to manage parenthood while barely being able to manage himself- and he didn’t think he could handle any more.
He was a super soldier, but he felt so fractured.
Olivia, when she’d left, had called him volatile.
She wasn’t wrong.
Most of the time, John felt like an empty shell, and was quiet.
But other times, someone would say something and he’d lash out.
He felt like a drowning man.
He knew panicking was killing him, and was bringing water into his lungs, but it felt instinctual.
And there really wasn’t much of a reason to calm himself down, honestly.
Everyone already hated him, and he’d already lost everything, so what was the point in trying?
All they saw was the villain, the psychopath, the unstable man who couldn’t follow in the footsteps of a god.
What was the point in even trying to be anything different, when their visions were so biased and their views of him unlikely to change any time soon?
He pulled his headphones out and flopped onto the bed, pulling a massive pile of blankets (one of the only comforts in his life these days) over him.
He relaxed when he pulled his plush towards him.
It was a large plush tiger.
They’d always been his favorite animals.
It may have been embarrassing for a grown man to sleep with a plushie (also known as a stuffed animal), but it kept the nightmares away and was the only way he could sleep.
It was soothing, having one entity in his life that comforted him and didn’t judge him.
One figure that wasn’t biased or hateful.
The tiger plushie’s name was Yǒnggǎn, which meant ‘brave’ in Mandarin (because tigers could sometimes be found in China).
There was a reason for the name.
Bravery was all that John had left.
His self-esteem had died after his trial.
His fealty, his loyalty to the American government, had died when the government had done nothing to stop Lemar’s killers and even fucking honored them.
Yes, he was still pissed at Wilson for treating Morgenthau like a hero.
She’d fucking murdered innocents, and John was the one who was a monster for killing a combatant?
His love had died when Olivia had slapped him, told him he was nothing more than a volatile and narcissistic asshole, and then left with their son.
And his hope, his optimism?
Well, that had died years before, as soon as he’d joined the military.
Also, everyone knew John Walker was dead.
He was only U.S. Agent now.
He wasn’t human, thanks to Captain America.
He was a monster.
A devil in human flesh.
And it fucking sucked that he was a pariah because Steve Rogers had decided to abandon the world and his friends when they needed him most.
But at this point, John was mostly used to it.
Pain was his normalcy and misery was his usual state.
Because he was always a choice, yet he was never chosen.